


At rest

by monocularcat (opposablethumbs)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of tromboners, Sleepy Cuddles, Swearing, but honestly that's why we're all here isn't it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/monocularcat
Summary: In a bed you find rest and, if you’re lucky, peace.





	At rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Culumacilinte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/gifts).



> This is because [culumacilinte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/works) said nice things over on Tumblr and I am, above all else, a comment tart.
> 
> Originally posted to the BSH in 2008.

**PART 1**

_Howard has four pillows on his single bed. Vince tells him it’s why his posture is so bad. But what Vince doesn't see is that Howard only sleeps on one. It’s Howard’s nightly ritual; forming a soft barrier between himself and the edge of the bed, hemming him into the wall._

_It's because he worries he might roll out. It's nothing to do with the press against his body, the calming feeling of proximity; no Sir. Maybe one day a sleeping figure, long and lean beside him, will be what stops him from falling._

_But for now, pillows will have to do._

****

_Vince has a double bed. It’s big and comfy. But the problem with Vince having a double bed is that he gets cold._

_When he hears the shower start up, Vince knows Howard’ll be at least ten minutes. It’s Vince’s morning ritual; sneaking into Howard’s room and amongst his sheets, sharing the warmth left there. It’s nothing to do with Howard’s smell on the bedding, the feeling as if someone’s there with him, at all. All Vince wants is wake up to a strong body holding him, warming him, every day._

_But for now, stolen heat will have to do._

**PART 2**

Vince comes round and he's nice and warm, buried in a mound of duvet. It takes him a moment to come properly to he's so comfortable. Then he realises where he is. He's in Howard's bed. He'd crept in as normal when Howard went for his shower, but then he's done the most stupid thing and fallen asleep.

 _'Shit, shit, shit'_ echoes through his mind as he kicks off the covers, freeing himself of the bedding nest.

On his feet now, he tips his head and listens for running water. He can't hear it. Bugger. He can only have seconds to get out of Howard's room, no time to rearrange the pillows like he found them. A sudden fear grips him. What if Howard has already seen him and is sat in the living room waiting for an explanation. How do you justify climbing into someone else's bed, even if they're currently not in it?

Caught in indecision, Vince hovers behind Howard's door. He’s not got a lot of options so using the logic 'fucked if you do, fucked if you don't', he turns the handle. He drags the door open and bounds out, slamming straight into Howard.

“What were you doing in my room?” Howard demands immediately, gripping on to Vince's elbows.

“Nothin!” Vince protests.

“I've told you, Vince, I have no intention of answering any more newspaper ads. You may as well give up looking for things to blackmail me with.”

“I was just looking for you,” Vince tries weakly.

“Oh yes. And why might that be?”

“Err... I was wondering if you fancied going out together tonight.” he rushes “Just as friends, like,” he adds in case there's any ambiguity.

“Oh, Vince, you know I don't do clubs,” he whines although Vince reckons he sees the faintest of smiles. Warming to his fib as a genuine idea, Vince pushes on. “Go on, Howard. We don't have to go anywhere too fancy.”

“I don't know, I really should be working on my portfolio... 'Urban London, a Portrait',”

“C’mon, it’s Friday. One night?”

“We'll see Vince.”

Vince takes to the bathroom smiling a little to himself. A night out with Howard might be nice actually, and as he hasn't out and out said no, there's hope. For once, Vince's brain cell seems to have pulled off a winner on all fronts. The perfect crime. All he needs now is a cat to stroke while he laughs manically.

Howard's raised voice bellows through the thin walls. “Why's my bloody duvet on the floor, Vince?” he shouts.

Alright, almost the perfect crime.

****

It's a real rarity, Howard going on a night out with Vince, but a morning's worth of constant pestering had made him concede. Yes, he'll have to sit moodily in a corner as Vince bops the night away, but the smile he got was worth the price.

When Vince smiles, really smiles - not that sneer he's favoured of late - it truly is like sunshine. It warms Howard. It's a strange possessive clutching in his chest, as if for a brief time Vince, the real Vince, _his_ Vince, is back with him. Howard doesn't want to let him go. That's his best friend, the man he loves.

Yes, he loves Vince. In a blokey kind of way, of course. In an 'I can't imagine myself without him' kind of way, as surely goes for all platonic male friendships. He's tried imagining life without Vince once or twice, actually. It always ends up as some joyless, sepia nightmare. No, better off as they are. Howard can always live in the hope that Vince will one day wake up and realise how much of an arse he's been being recently.

“It'll be genius, Howard, you'll see,” Vince promises. A long time ago, Howard learnt that anything described as 'genius' will probably be a form of torture for him. He nods anyway.

“It's been ages since you and me went out on our own.”

That takes Howard a bit aback. “Our own?” he asks.

“Well, yeah. I mean, you can bring someone if you like...”

“No, no, Vince. I just assumed we would be out with some of your real mates.”

Shit. He hears that a split second after he says it and realises what he's done straight after as Vince's face falls.

“You're my real mate, ain't you?” Vince asks after a heavy pause.

“Of course I am. I just meant the people the same as you, the ones who get fashion and electro and all that.”

“But you and me are the same!” Vince defends. Howard looks between them. Vince is in his sparkly glitterball suit, heeled shoes and a boa. Howard wears his slacks and a polo neck undershirt. This morning he has also favoured a cardigan recently purchased from BHS. He raises his eyebrow and looks at Vince in query.

“Alright, not our clothes,” Vince admits.

“Or our taste in music, food, social habits...”

“OK, none of that shit, but the important stuff.”

“All that IS the important stuff,” Howard says, mentally adding 'for you' to the end. “It's who we are.”

“No it's not!” Vince exclaims, and Howard is surprised at the vehemence in his tone. “You're the one who told me it's what inside that counts.”

“And you're the one who compared himself to a beachball,” Howard defends, although secretly he's touched at Vince's insistence.

“Well, I'm going for the cream egg look now, alright?”

Howard thinks that may be a suitable comparison; glittery wrapper, hard on the outside and sweet on the in. “I could quite fancy a cream egg...” he muses.

“What?” Vince asks and there's hope in his features, probably at the thought that Howard might pop to the newsagents and buy them some sweeties.

“Might be nice to have a bit of chocolate with our brew this afternoon,” Howard clarifies, checking the change in his pocket.

“Oh, right.” Vince sounds surprisingly downhearted and then perks. “You're gonna eat sugar, Howard? Mental. Remember the last time?” He goes for what sounds like the start of a sugary crimp but Howard frowns.

“Well, we won’t be having a repeat of _that_ ,” Howard discloses. “I'm still banned from the bowling alley.”

“Yeah, not surprising really. There were nippers around. You can't go stripping off in public places, there's laws against it. At least one that I know of.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Howard sighs. “I'll skip it. Nobody needs to see my naked arse running down the high street.”

Vince climbs to his feet. “Tell you what, mate; I'll get 'em, my treat.” He breezes out of the shop, leaving Howard gawping in his wake.

**PART 3**

Stood just in his pants, Vince chucks another shirt, red and silken this time, to the floor. He's been getting ready for hours now, not that that is massively unusual.

Why is he even fretting about what to wear? He's going out with Howard. It's not like it's a date. And chances of the night ending in a date are remarkably small. Howard doesn't exactly draw women to him like moths to a light-source. His patented 'leery old man' stare tends to have them hiding behind their alcopops. But still, Vince wants to look nice, right? No point disappointing anyone.

Alright, maybe tops are too big a challenge-he does have a lot of them. If he chooses his pants first, he'll narrow down the possibilities.

Black skinnies? Oh that's original, Noir.

Leopard print? Bit much for a casual outing and a touch Rod Stuart anyway.

The bottom half of his suit? No. Just no. That goes to Oxfam first thing Monday.

Vince strokes his hand against some navy denim. Ah, the trusties. He hasn't worn these in ages. They were always his scoring trousers. True, they’re a bit slacker around the knee than he favours nowadays, but perfect across his arse. It's funny, they weren't dear or nothing, but he's never had another pair of jeans get him so much attention. And as he's on the tiles with Howard, maybe a bit of nostalgia is ok. Next to the jazz maverick they’ll look positively futuristic anyway. He pulls them off the hanger.

God, look at that waist. He doesn't know if he dares put them on. What if they don't fit any more? It'll be the end of life itself. He looks down his length at his body. He's in pretty good nick for a man of 36. He coughs lightly. 27, he meant 27.

Fuck it. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear compadres’ or some shit like that that Howard comes out with. Vince rarely listens; he just presses the red button.

He steps into them and closes his eyes as he pulls them up, praying to Iggy for mercy. The zip goes up and... the button closes. Well thank fuck for that. He examines them in the mirror, twisting to see front and back. Alright, they are a touch tighter round the middle, there's no point kidding himself about that. They're looser round the thigh than he remembers, though. Probably some of his football chunk has gone now he doesn't play so much anymore. The arse is still good though and that's what really matters.

Right, trousers done; now for a top. He bites the inside of his lip. Well, these jeans don't really support anything too outlandish so that rules out most of his current clothes. Alright; in for a penny, in for a pound. A t-shirt, why not? He teases out a black one, highlighted with silver studwork and black sequins and pulls it on. He tops it all off with some silver ankle-boots. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. The reflected image is... Vince.

He realises with a startling clarity that he's missed himself. The clothes have come first and Vince has come second for a long time now. Dressing up should be a laugh, mucking about with fabrics and gender roles, but lately it’s stopped being fun and started feeling like work. Every outfit has to top the last. He loves all his sparkly outfits, just like he loves his shiny friends, but maybe there still needs to be time for something else.

Like tonight. Howard's been his best mate for years but they barely spend any real time together anymore. Vince crosses to his Jagger shrine, clearing it of strewn clothing and blowing the dust away. What would Mick do upon having a revelation about the very nature of his existence? Well, thrust out his groin, purse his lips and do a strut. So not much help here. He feels a bit like he has woken up from a dream and can remember pieces of it, but not the most important part – as if that’s still to come. He'll have to play it by ear then and wait to see if anything more comes of it. From the doorway, he gives his bum a final wiggle in the mirror as he leaves the room.

In the hall he encounters something unexpected. Howard is stood faffing with his shirt, tucking it in then pulling it out of his pants.

Not that that is weird. Howard faffs all the time, it's sort of his thing. No, what does surprise Vince is Howard's attire.

“You look... nice, Howard” he says, wishing he didn’t sound quite as astounded as he does.

“And you look... normal, Vince.” Vince goes for an 'oi', but Howard hastily continues. “Good normal, though.” Vince thinks he hears Howard mutter 'really good' but truth be told, he's too distracted examining Howard's clothes.

“I didn't know you even owned any trousers outside the spectrum of brown anymore?” Vince asks.

“Erm... these? Yeah, don't wear them much.”

That's an understatement. Howard's trousers are a deep charcoal and the undershirt is dark green. Even the buttoned shirt on top isn't too hideous. It could probably pass as genuinely retro.

“Well, you're looking pretty sharp, there, Moon. Y’never know, you might pull.”

“Hardly.” The bitter resignation in Howard's voice makes it all the way through Vince's sunshine disposition.

If any of his other friends sounded like that, he'd give them a hug, but Howard tends to get all squeaky when he tries. He favours him with a cheeky grin instead. “You're going out with Vince Noir tonight, you never know who you might be coming home with,” he winks.

“Now that I can believe,” Howard replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Oi, cheeky fucker.” Vince protests, “I'm very selective I’ll have you know. Not like I wake up every morning with a new bit of fluff in my bed, is it? Most of the girls that claim to have slept with me are making it up ‘cause I knocked 'em back. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers, Howard.” He gives Howard a meaningful look.

“I was more thinking about what you read in the pub toilets,” Howard admits.

Vince's brow knits. “That fucking Leroy been at it again?” he demands. “He thinks it's well funny, putting all that shit about me. Balding little twat. Well, that solves where we're going tonight. I'll get my nail varnish remover.”

“I'm not spending all night with you in a men’s bog. People will talk.” Howard scowls, tucking the shirt in once more.

“Trust me, five minutes'll be enough. It's some mother-fucking strong nail varnish remover.” He saunters towards Howard, and pulls the shirt free of Howard’s belt. “Looks better that way,” he explains. “Hides the stomach.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Howard frowns but smoothes the shirt over his torso.

Vince traces his finger over one of the swirls decorating the cotton of Howard’s top, hovering just above the fabric. “Anyway, Howard,” he continues, offering the taller man with a coquettish look, “if I was gonna jump you it'd be somewhere nicer than the toilets in the Fox.” For whatever reason, most likely an overactive flirt gland, Vince raises onto his toes and presses a quick peck to Howard's cheek. Then he wanders into his bedroom to look for his Jean Claude Jaquetti brand acetone. It's only as he curls his fingers round the elusive bottle that he realises that when he kissed Howard, Howard had run a large, firm hand over the curve of his arse.

He grins. If they can ellicit a groping from Howard TJ Moon, the straightest man he knows, he really _should_ wear these jeans more often.

****

“Come on then, big fella, let’s get you up these stairs,” Vince drawls.

“Vince, I’m the one holding you up,” Howard states, attempting to assert his sobriety, or rather his slightly-more -sober-than-you-Vince-iety.

“Nah, nah, nah,” Vince eruditely asserts, “no-one’s holding me up ‘cept the booze fairy.”

“Who’re you calling fairy? Bollocks.”

“Fairy bollocks? They’d be well tiny.”

“No, Vince, just regular bollocks. I appear to have fallen over.”

“Yeah, me too. What a coincidence.”

“Not really. I was holding you up.”

“Ah, but were you really holding me up?”

“Yes, Vince, now get off me. Your bony knees are somewhere rather uncomfortable.”

There’s a sound of scrambling and some giggling and finally the two men make it into the flat.

“I’m going to get out of these clothes,” Howard announces, a touch on the loud side even to his own ears.

“You do that, Mr. Moon I’ll be in momen… moment… in a bit, yeah?” Vince stumbles towards the kitchen.

Howard lurches into his own room. His fingers fumble with his buttons until he can shake himself free of his shirt and hang it up over the open door of his wardrobe. He kicks his shoes off under the bed and throws his socks in a ball in the direction of the wash basket. A soft knock on his open door startles him from the argument he’s having with his belt and he jerks his head round to look at it.

Vince. He’s leaning casually against the frame, looking fragile and strong all in one confusing bundle. Howard can see his big blue eyes from here, soft and loose, and the pink alcohol blush that spreads across his marble cheeks. Howard stares at him; at his arresting eyes, at the thin strip of exposed stomach where his t-shirt has ridden up. He wanders his gaze along the dark trail of curling hair disappearing into the trousers that he always liked Vince in. Vince’s feet are bare and his long toes curl into the carpet. But most of all Howard’s attention is drawn to the green bottles clasped in either of Vince’s hands, one of which is thrust towards him.

“Haven’t we had enough?” Howard asks, but takes the proffered bottle.

“Yep, so one more won’t hurt,” Vince concludes and there is enough logic there that Howard shrugs. Vince clinks their bottles together and they both draw a long pull on the crisp, cold lager. Howard lets out a long, rattling sigh and flops onto his bed. He leans against the wall and feels the cool plasterwork against his back, letting his eyes close for a minute. When he opens them, Vince is looking back at him. It’s hard to read what is in Vince’s face, and not just because of the booze haze. It’s just… Howard hasn’t seen him look like that for such a long time. It’s affection. He’s looking at Howard like he cares about him. It suddenly strikes Howard that Vince is still standing in the doorway.

“Are you coming in, or what?” Howard asks. It sounds gruffer than he’d meant it to, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he shines out a big smile, his funny teeth winking at Howard in a way that makes him smile too. He half-tumbles into Howard’s room and bounces onto the bed beside Howard.

“I had a good night tonight,” Howard says as Vince stills, and it almost feels like an admission of guilt. He really hadn’t expected to. It’s a strange thing, but the few draughts of lager have sobered him up a bit, and he finds he can think, talk and focus a little easier.

“Yeah, was fun. That blokes face!” Vince beams, rolling the damp bottle between his palms.

“Well, be fair Vince, he did come in to use the facilities to two men in a cubicle one of whom was shouting ‘for fuck’s sake rub harder, we’re nearly there’.”

Vince laughs halfway through a mouthful and struggles to swallow. He chokes it down and splutters, doubling forward. Howard reaches out tentatively and pats him on the back.

“Fuck, it sounded better in my head,” Vince manages at length pulling deep breaths into his lungs. Howard stops patting but leaves his hand in between Vince’s angular shoulder blades for a moment longer. In case of a sudden relapse, of course.

Vince looks round and meets Howard’s eyes. Suddenly his face is serious.

“Cheers for coming out with me Howard. It was just what I needed.” Vince wriggles into Howard’s side, resting his head on the broad shoulder. His body emits heat like a toasty radiator.

“What do you mean, Vince?” Howard asks, not broaching the touching topic.

“Well, that I can have a good time without having to be the centre of attention.”

“But you love being the centre of attention.”

“Not all the time. It was nice just being able to chill out without someone hitting on me every two minutes.”

“Was I cramping your style?” Howard teases, although the answer is clearly ‘yes’.

“Actually, Howard, I think I was getting in your way tonight,” Vince alludes.

Howard blinks, and pulls himself a little more upright, dislodging Vince. “How’d you figure that?” he asks.

“That girl was well giving you the eye!” Vince nudges Howard playfully, and a bit of lager escapes Howard’s mouth, trickling over his stubbly chin. Vince cleans the spilt drops away for Howard with his thumb and wipes it off on his jeans.

“Which ‘girl’?” Howard presses.

“Y’know, the pretty one. Out with a couple of mates. She kept smiling at you…”

“She never did!” Howard argues. He can feel his cheeks going redder, a blush outshining the damp flush already there from the unaccustomed amount of drink.

“Bloody hell, Howard. How’d you miss that? It’s no wonder you’re single.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Howard counters and a vague waft of anger struggles with his usually placid temperament.

“I wasn’t bein’ mean,” Vince placates, patting at Howard’s thigh. “S’just you always go chasing after the ones you can’t have and you never notice the ones y’can.”

“There’s been others?” Howard asks, voice small.

Vince shrugs. “Probably. I’m usually too busy fighting my own off to keep track of yours.”

“Ah, the Noirettes, how could I forget?” Howard clears his throat. “Was she… err, really? The one with the dress on?”

“Yeah. Mind, you scrubbed up alright tonight. Could’ve quite fancied you myself.” Vince doesn’t say anymore, but his eyes flick from side to side and he takes a deep swig of his lager. Howard’s left leg gets the jiggles and they sit in silence, the only noise the slight squeak of the springs in the mattress that shakes with Howard’s movement. Abruptly, the jiggling stops.

“Vince?” Howard begins quietly.

“Mmm?” Vince sounds like he’s part-way asleep.

“Why’d you kiss me? Earlier, I mean.”

“Mhu? Kiss you?”

Howard turns to Vince and he does indeed have his eyes closed. “Yeah, before we went out. In the living room.”

Vince sighs and opens his baby blues a slit. “Dunno. Just messing about, I guess.”

“Oh, right.”

Silence resumes.

“Suppose for the same reason you grabbed my arse,” Vince murmurs.

“Excuse me?” Howard asks.

“Y’had a feel of my bum.” Vince vaguely accuses, batting three pillows from the head of the bed onto the floor.

“I never did!” Howard retaliates, although… well…

Vince slumps to horizontal and squirms himself into what looks like a comfy position on his back. He puts one hand behind his head and stares up at the magnolia ceiling. “Did too,” he contradicts. “S’alright. I’ve gorra nice bum…” Vince closes his eyes again and breathes deeply. “M’stoppin’ here, alright?” he adds.

“Alright.” Howard agrees, shaking his head. He’s too tired and drunk to argue, truth be told. And he’s used to occupying only a small slip of space against the wall. He crawls into the gap between the brickwork and Vince. Even though it’s a single and neither man is particularly small, Howard manages to settle himself on his side into his regular dip in the mattress. It doesn’t even require touching Vince. From this vantage Howard can watch the regular rise and fall of Vince’s clothed chest. The rhythm of Vince’s breathing starts to lull Howard, almost akin to the soft sound of distant waves. He closes his eyes.

Howard’s very last thought before the grey fog of sleep takes him is that he could get used to nights like this.

**PART 4**

Mmm, waking up warm two mornings in a row. Vince could get used to this. He can feel the scratchy sensation of last night’s clothes against his skin, but they’re not what’s stopping him getting cold. It’s the arm round his waist and the press of a large, familiar body against his back. Howard’s deep breaths puff across the nape of Vince’s neck and a small rumbley snore rattles against his spine. Howard shifts a little and the snoring stops with a grunt. Vince feels Howard’s nose nuzzle in amongst his hair. At this point he really should wake Howard up, not least because he doesn’t let people fiddle with his precious bonce.

Then Howard issues a small, moaning mutter. Soft lips and coarse moustache move across the exposed stretch of shoulder where the neck of Vince’s t-shirt has stretched wide in his sleep.

“You’re beautiful,” Howard murmurs, kissing across Vince’s skin. “I love you, I’ve always loved you. I was such a fool for not realising it.” Vince holds his breath.

Bloody hell, he’s having the moves put on him by Howard Moon. These ones definitely arrived in the first post. He doesn’t know what to say or do. The pounding in his chest tells him there’s something he might like to do soon.

Just as soon as the kissing started, it stops again and Howard inhales deeply. “That hedgehog needs water wings,” he adds into the mix.

Vince lets out the breath he’s been holding, and his heart starts to calm. Ah, Howard’s talking in his sleep. Now that makes far more sense. Vince tries to stop the word ‘shame’ wandering through his mind.

Howard’s breathing becomes shallower, and his arm encircling Vince’s middle tightens. Vince allows himself to be pulled a fraction closer and the base of his arse contacts with something firm behind him. His eyes widen.

That girl. Howard’s having a dirty dream about that girl in the pub. Genius. Vince’d always wondered if Howard had _them_. They probably involve some kind of jazzy, brass-instrument based foreplay. It certainly seems to have resulted in a tromboner.

Vince moves, purely to get into a more comfortable position, pushing back slightly against Howard. “Mhumph,” Howard responds. Vince stills. Howard rouses further and Vince decides the only thing to do it bite the bullet.

“Morning Howard,” he says cheerfully.

“Mornin’ Vince,” the tone of Howard’s voice makes it clear he’s barely conscious. “You’re awake early…” he adds, yawning and the sound of cotton being scratched floats through the air.

“More that you’re awake late,” Vince provides.

“Do you fancy getting me a resolve?” Howard asks hopefully.

“I would, Howard, but you’re cuddling me.”

There is a brief second of absolute silence.

“Shit, that’s you?” Howard demands. His voice goes unnaturally high. “ _That’s you_!?” Howard scrambles away, pushing Vince and dumping him unceremoniously to the floor.

“Oi, knob!” Vince swears, climbing to his knees.

“Don’t touch me!” Howard yelps, somewhat unnecessarily. He is huddled into the corner of the bed, cheeks ablaze but the rest of his face a deathly white.

“Hey, I weren’t doing a thing,” Vince stands and dusts himself down. “You were the one…”

“What? What did I do?” Howard sounds fearful and Vince wonders if he’s remembering his dream and taking it to the logical conclusion.

Howard looks on the verge of an episode; his chest is heaving, he’s blinking rapidly. Vince does his best to calm him. “Nothin’ Howard. I woke up, you had your arm round me. Nothing else.”

“You swear?” Howard asks, narrow eyes as wide as Vince has ever seen them and full of trust of his friend’s honesty.

“Not your fault Howard,” Vince shrugs, carefully avoiding any fibbing, “only a single bed. You were probably just keeping me from falling out.”

Howard nods, his face relaxing as if that is something he can accept. Of course it is. Howard would see it as his manly duty to protect Vince, despite the fact it usually works the other way round. Vince can almost hear the cogs turning in Howard mind as he draws himself straighter. _‘Howard Moon; protector of the weak, rescuer of maidens, cuddler extraordinaire…’_

“And don’t worry, neither,” Vince adds. “Getting a bit perky in the mornin’ is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Whatever comfort Howard had taken dissolves as he grabs the sole remaining pillow on the bad and clutches it to his groin. “I… I…” he stammers.

“Howard, cool yer boots, it’s fine. I’d be worried about you if you didn’t. So, g’on. Were you dreaming ‘bout that bird?” Vince issues Howard with a lewd wink and for some reason Howard’s blush deepens and extends to his whole face. He diverts his eyes bashfully. Vince knows what’s coming next is a change of topic, probably a further request for a drink.

“Your hair smelled nice,” Howard says quite unexpectedly, without looking up. It’s good that even after all these years Howard can still throw Vince a loop occasionally. Without thinking Vince reaches up and touches it.

“I, err… cheers mate. Could do with a wash though. In fact…” Vince gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. He leaves Howard to recover from his shocker and pads into the smallest room, closing the door firmly behind him. He turns the shower on to heat up and sits on the toilet lid while he waits. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly gone all shy himself, butterflies swirling in his stomach. He gets the feeling that this revelation really isn’t over. Normally, a compliment about his hair would result in nothing more than a proud ‘thank you’ and maybe a flick for good measure.

But then, it isn’t usually Howard doing the complimenting.

****

They’ve made it through nearly another full week without incident. Well, there was that day that they discovered Vince’s wardrobe led to a magical alternate dimension, but then Howard had always sort of expected that it did.

Vince has uncharacteristically tactfully not brought up last Saturday morning, for which Howard is very grateful. And thankfully there have been no more dreams either; dreams about pale skin, pink lips and raven hair. Howard blames the alcohol. At least his subconscious had the good decency to stay where it should be and hadn’t done anything to embarrass him other than causing a little… manly exuberance.

It’s Thursday, well, technically Friday looking at the clock. Howard wouldn’t normally truck this type of late night on a work-day, but the conversation has been so easy, so _friendly_ that he has lost track of time.

It’s been a good week actually. Yes, Saturday had been a little stilted, and Howard had gone to bed early and left Vince to presumably go out on the town. Next morning he’d woken at some ungodly hour and gone to make himself a brew. It was then he’d discovered Vince lain out on the settee, the television still on the same channel it had been when he’d retired. Vince had nary a blanket about him and Howard, knowing that once he’s awake he’s awake, had gone and fetched the still-warm duvet from his bed and draped it across the prone figure.

Once they were both fed and showered they’d gone to the park so Vince could have a natter to the geese about how the migration had been, and then Howard had done the food shop while Vince had nipped into town. That evening Vince had gone out, but had been back a little before 11, just in time to catch Howard before bed. He’d stood very close, and seemed to be waiting for something as Howard had said goodnight, so Howard had asked if Vince was wearing new boots. Vince had smiled and wished him ‘goodnight’ too.

The rest of the week had gone wonderfully. A playful camaraderie has been re-established between them and although Howard doesn’t know the exact reason for it, he is nothing but glad. Even their trip to the aforementioned other dimension had worked out pretty well after learning that all the biros that unaccountably disappear in this universe magically reappear in that. Howard’s stationary worries seem to be at an end. True, there had been a bit of trouble with the locals, but when isn’t there? Of course, once they’d realised that Vince was the long-prophesied second coming of their main deity, it had all been smoothed over rather quickly. Offerings were appearing in the bottom of Vince’s wardrobe regularly now; gems, silky fabrics, a virgin on one occasion although Vince had sent her back saying he already had one.

The only real problem is Howard hasn’t been sleeping quite as soundly as usual. Perhaps he’s just worried that if he sleeps too deeply those… thoughts might come back. Or maybe it’s just that the pillows he lies against just don’t seem to be doing the trick anymore and he needs to buy new ones.

So now it’s 1am on Friday morning and they’re still sat up. They’d gone and got ready for bed at an appropriate hour but then got caught chatting and reminiscing over old times.

“So, yeah, that’s what happened to Joey Moose,” Vince concludes.

“And you say you got all this off, what was it, Chinbook?”

“Facebook, muppet!” Vince retorts and chucks a cushion at him. “I poked him and he sent me a message.”

“You ‘poked’ Joey Moose?” asks Howard nervously.

“Yeah, with my mouse,” Vince replies.

“Does Joey particularly enjoy being assaulted with rodents, then? I mean, there were some strange rumours at the zoo…”

“Yeah, like you bummin’ a fox…”

“Like I said, strange, thoroughly untrue rumours…”

“Yeah, yeah Howard. I know.” Vince winks at him bawdily and Howard throws the cushion back at him.

Just then, the door to Naboo’s room wrenches open and he pokes his head out, sleeping turban squiffed at a funny angle.

“Do you two fancy keeping it down,” he berates, “some of us are have a hearing with the board tomorrow about that case of unauthorised levitation.”

Vince looks at Howard and pulls a grimace.

“Sorry Naboo,” Howard offers and Naboo shakes his head and closes the door back behind him. _“What should we do?”_ Howard stage-whispers to Vince.

Vince shrugs, _“We could always go to my room?”_ he whispers back. Howard nods without hesitation. In fact, what he seems to be experiencing is bubbling excitement, and not wanting to seem a bit weird, he tries to act calm and collected as he gets deliberately languidly to his feet. Unfortunately his foot catches on the half-drunk mug of cold tea on the floor, tipping it all over the carpet.

“Fucking fucker!” he shouts, shaking milky drops from his toes. Something heavy hits the inside of Naboo’s door. Vince, on his feet himself but miraculously free of spilt beverage, takes and squeezes Howard’s hand. Howard’s eyes jerk up from the mess, first to their hands, then to Vince’s face.

“I’ll see you in there, yeah?” Vince asks softly.

Howard nods and goes to fetch some paper towels, glancing over his shoulder to see Vince retreating into his room. He’s not been permitted access to Vince’s room for a very long time now. Not since he put a load of ‘dry clean only’s’ through the tumble dryer. It’s quite intriguing to see what he has done with it. No doubt there will be lots of soft fabrics involved. Howard dabs up the tea and throws away the soggy remains. He crosses a ten foot expanse of carpet and knocks upon the door to the Noir boudoir.

“No pegs!” Vince shouts from within and Howard lets himself in, a grin on his face.

Actually, Vince’s room, although criminally messy, is surprisingly sedate. There are posters on the wall, a stack of magazines in the corner, umpteen piles of clothes and the shrine that Vince moved wholesale from the zoo is set up under the window. Other than that it’s pretty much untouched.

They talk for a while longer, but the conversation slows as they both get tired. Howard finds himself stretching out on Vince’s wide bed next to the already recumbent smaller man, a much easier feat than in Howard’s room, and occupying a position a distance from him. Howard is by the wall, Vince is on the edge and a decent strip of bed separates them. You could probably get a third person in there, but then Vince is the one that goes for the three-way thing. Vince’s mattress is soft and well-sprung and Howard can feel himself starting to drift in the comfortable silences between talking.

“Vince, I’m dropping off here,” he says into a particularly long pause. “I should retire to my own chambers.”

“Mmm?” Vince asks.

“Come on, chewy cheeks,” Howard says rolling onto his side, “let me up or I’ll have to climb over you.”

Vince is quiet, but Howard can see him bite his lip and then his larynx bob as he swallows.

“You could always…” Vince starts.

“What?” Howard questions.

Vince swallows again. “Crash here, save us getting up,” he says, then rushes: “Big bed this one. No chance of us ending up in a compromising position.”

Howard gets a strange, conflicting feeling in his stomach; expectation and apprehension all in one. The only appropriate course of action is to protest, though. After all, his room is but 20 yards away. To stay here, with Vince would be… he can’t decide on _what_ it would be.

“But we’re not drunk,” Howard argues weakly.

“Yeah,” Vince replies, “but I _am_ comfy.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Right then. Settle down.” Vince gets to his feet and turns the light off. Howard considers pointing out that if he was planning on standing up to do that, then he could have easily let Howard out. Something, though, stills his tongue; probably the feeling that if he does mention it, the offer might be revoked.

The full moon shines through the crack in the curtains, casting milky light across the sheets and the bed dips as Vince gets back onto it. Howard can see the rays reflecting in Vince’s large, orb-like eyes as they stare into the darkness.

Howard sighs and shifts his weight. The wall in Vince’s room feels cold. Howard’s wall stays warm because he is next to the airing cupboard, but Vince has no such luck. Howard moves further in to the bed, confident that the mattress is broad enough for it to make no difference. He closes his eyes and strains his ears for the breathing only a few feet away. He leans his upper body slightly closer, trying to hear the quiet sounds. Vince’s voice makes him jump.

“Howard?”

“Yes?”

“I, err…I have to lie on my right. Can’t get to sleep on my back.”

Howard peeks out from under his eyelashes. “Funny, I’m the opposite, I like my back to the wall, facing out.”

“Is it alright if I turn over?” Vince asks.

“I… I don’t see why not. If you stay to your allotted pillow,” Howard replies.

The bed rocks as Vince rolls onto his side, bringing them face to face. The moonlight picks out his angular features and is so bright that Howard can see each whisker poking out of Vince’s skin. It’s a strange sight. Vince grooms so carefully, even trapped on a desert island, that Howard rarely gets to see him with stubble anymore. Howard gets a wry smirk and the strangest of impulses takes him.

Shuffling a fraction closer, Howard reaches out a crooked finger and tickles under Vince’s chin like he is a household pet.

Vince chokes out a laugh. “Hey, m’not a cat,” he giggles, batting gently at Howard’s hand but lengthening his neck, effectively dispelling the claim.

Vince wriggles a bit closer, his fringe falling into his eyes. He reaches up, running his fingers through the length and brushing it away. He leaves his arm over his head, his side elongated. A flash of pale skin at Vince’s waist catches Howard’s eye.

Vince’s soft skin calls to him, and the heavy safety of the air makes Howard forget he’s not supposed to touch what isn’t his. His hand drifts from where it has crept to Vince’s cheek, down his body, to the exposed flash of torso. His fingers brush lightly over it, and Vince tilts in to the touch, bring his body that bit closer. Howard lays his palm flat to Vince’s middle, and nudges the t-shirt and jogging pants slightly further apart to grant him full access. Vince’s unblinking eyes are on him. Neither mention where Howard’s hand is. The line of Vince’s pelvis, the very start of the solid bones, catches the light and is set in sharp relief with shadow behind the peak. Howard runs his hand along it, the firm mixing with the smooth and then back up, circling him arm round to the small of Vince’s back. His arm shakes with over-extension as he strokes softly at the bobbles of Vince’s spine.

Finally, Vince speaks up. “Might have to rethink being a cat, I’ve got the urge to purr,” he sighs into the stillness.

“Yeah?” Howard asks.

“Mmm,” Vince confirms.

There is a pause, Howard hand stops stroking, and is withdrawn back to the dent at Vince’s waist. They both shuffle at the same time, and Vince’s head joins Howard’s on one pillow. The bed moves slightly under the combined weight, and the proximity is now too much to ignore.

“You’re not on your allotted pillow, Vince,” Howard announces. Vince shakes his head, rubbing his cheek into the padding. Their knees touch and Howard’s thigh glances against something. Howard swallows thickly.

The next pause is longer than any before.

“Are you going to do anything about it?” Howard asks at last. His voice trembles and his palm, still on Vince’s flesh, slicks with perspiration. His heart is set to allegro.

Vince wets his lips. “Well,” he begins, “we could always do this…”

Vince stretches his neck back up and joins their mouths together. Howard doesn’t have time to think, he simply kisses back. Vince’s arms snake round Howard’s neck and Howard uses his strength to press their bodies tightly together. Even as he matches Vince move for move, Howard knows there is no drink to blame, nothing to explain this behaviour.

Weaving his hand into Vince’s hair, he draws their heads together, deepening the kiss. He needs more. More touch, more taste, just more… Vince. It’s heady, like a drug; he feels like he’s losing himself to it. He screws his eyes tightly together. He needs some form of control. Yes, sir. Howard Moon is in charge of himself, a calm, collected, paragon of self-discipline and willpower.

He pulls pulls back to stare into Vince’s eyes; darkened pools now with the light dimmed. Vince’s long lashes dust over his cheeks as he blinks, slowly and purposefully. Howard might be the cartographer here, but the way Vince’s eyes flicker back and forth in their socket gives Howard the distinct impression that Vince is mapping him. Every crest, peak, angular formation, every plane and valley falls under his gaze. If he had a church with a spire somewhere about his person, Howard reckons Vince might actually mark him with a circle and a cross.

“Good job there, Howard,” he says breathily.

Howard scrunches his nose. “Good job? You make me sound like a boy scout. Do I get a ‘I kissed Vince Noir’ badge?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Vince whine. Howard makes a non-committal noise. “I really didn’t. Howard, look at me Howard.”

Howard turns his head. Vince looks more perfect now than he ever has; hair disarrayed and cheeks dark with blood.

“I’m glad we did it. I just… Christ, I’ve fucked up haven’t I?” Vince’s eyes widen, Howard can almost see himself in them they are so large. Dampness spreads across them, and the welling up is given away by the moonlight twinkling in the unspilled tears.

Howard sighs. “Come here,” he says simply, opening his arms.

Vince’s brow furrows as if he is trying to ascertain the trick. “Really?” he asks. Howard nods. Reassured, he wriggles over into Howard’s embrace. As awful as it sounds, it’s all he can offer. He has enough trying to deal with the possibilities in his own mind without trying to sooth Vince’s fears with words. Vince rests his head into Howard’s chest and Howard can feel his breaths on his neck. It’s the most at peace Howard thinks he’s ever felt.

Because maybe it wasn’t about having someone to stop him from falling. Maybe what’s important is that Vince is here to catch him now he has.

**PART 5**

Vince comes round and he’s… well, he’s not exactly warm – his bed is empty. But he’s not cold either. His lips feel puffy as he presses them together and he has no problem remembering why. A smile splits his face. He got off with Howard last night. And, fucking hell, if that man isn’t a bit of a dark horse! It wasn’t like he’d deliberately seduced Howard and dragged him off to bed. ‘Course, sat on that toilet lid last Saturday was when he’d figured it out; or at least most of it. It’s funny how all the best ideas in life come to you in the bathroom. He might have to ask Naboo if it’s something in the arrangement of the porcelain that enhances brain power.

Not that Vince is backwards in these matters, anyway. He’ll never win Mastermind or anything but he knows when he fancies someone and when someone fancies him. Still, he took his time working this out. He reckons that it's been one of those times when denial doesn’t just get you wet if you fall in it. Perhaps Howard had been on to something with his ‘molten sexual tension’ outburst, although he’d gone back on it pretty sharpish at the time. Maybe that is half the reason Vince has been acting such a titbox. Or it could be that Vince really is a titbox, and he just needed something to make him see it. Either way, the titboxery stops now. This last week, and what happened last night, has been too good to muck up because Howard is an easy target, the jazzy freak. ‘But my jazzy freak,’ adds Vince mentally.

But none of this is getting him any closer to why he’s not woken up shivering like normal. He pulls back the covers and looks down his length. His pyjamas are in place just as he remembers, but now added to them are a pair of oddly-matched bedsocks. Vince feels a tightening in his chest, almost a difficulty to breath. Maybe it was never about having anyone there to wake up to. It could just be that Howard cares enough about him to help him stay warm.

He shakes himself and rubs his eyes. Gritty from sleep, that's what it is. Eugh, he needs a shower. His hair is well rank. He grabs some towels off the radiator that Howard seems to have figured out how to switch on and nicks across to the bathroom to start getting ready for work.

When he finally emerges, clean and tidy once more, he decides a brew is in order. He wanders into the kitchen, almost missing the diminutive form sat at the table.

"Alright, Naboo. Didn't see you there. What time's the meeting with the board?"

"Already been. Got an 80 euro fine and 3 points on my licence."

"Ah well, could've been worse," Vince assesses, switching the kettle on.

"Shouldn't you be working, anyway?" Naboo asks.

"Me and Howard decided to… er… take shifts," Vince starts nervously.

"I see," Naboo replies carefully, voice even more notably free of emotion than usual. "Sounds like the pair of you got a few things straight last night."

Vince sits down. "Err, yeah. Straight," he says.

Naboo raises a thick, black, puma of an eyebrow.

"Sorry, Naboo, are you gettin' at somethin'?" challenges Vince.

Naboo's eyebrow ascends a little further, like a powerful entity of judgement in its own right.

Vince breaks. "Alright, yeah. So stuff happened. What's the problem?"

"Problem is, Vince, that you and Howard have very different ideas about relationships."

"What do you mean?" Vince asks.

Naboo settles back into his seat. Vince didn't realise Naboo could look anymore relaxed but... turns out he was wrong.

"Well, what do you think last night meant to Howard?" says Naboo.

"Dunno..." Vince hasn't even figured out exactly what last night means to him without trying to poke his brain cell into anything deeper than that. "Anyway, what business is it of yours?"

Naboo sighs. "It's my business because I'm your boss and landlord, and more that that, because I'm your friend. I've been around a long time Vince, and I've made every mistake in the book."

"You think it's a mistake?" Vince tilts his head to the side in query.

"Look, Vince." Naboo begins, "Howard's the kind of man who believes in true love and a glorious forever and you're..."

"I'm what?" Vince asks harshly.

Naboo shrugs. "A tart."

"Oi!" Vince cries.

"Face it, can you really see you and Howard settling down and growing old together?"

"I don't get old, y'weeble," Vince pouts. He doesn't like to admit it, but Naboo's words have really stung. And not least because Vince can see truth in them, or at least that it might seem that way to others.

"Unless you've been nicking my supplies of youth water then yes, you will."

"So what're you saying I do? Lie to him and tell him it was a one off? That I'm not interested?"

"That's up to you, innit? I'm not going to tell you that you should or shouldn't be bumming Howard. But just think about what you're doing and who you're doing it to."

"Genius," Vince mutters.

"I'm off to squeeze a frog and try and figure out how to write 80 euros off against my tax." Naboo gets up to leave.

"Yeah, bye mate," Vince says distractedly.

Naboo has a point, really. A bloody inconvenient one, but a point nonetheless. Vince doesn’t want to hurt Howard. He loves him too much for that. A weak smile flutters onto his lips. Now _that’s_ the end of the revelation. ‘Course he loves him. Any bloody idiot could see it. But does that make it right? Can he honestly offer Howard everything that he desires? A partner, a future? His head hurts. Vince doesn’t usually like those words; they tend to bring him out in a rash. But somehow, they don’t seem so bad in this situation. And in the end, it’s _all_ about context.

Vince finishes off the teas; one for him, one for Howard, and carries them down into the shop below.

On the bottom step he stops. He can hear things being shifted round in the back. He still doesn’t know what the bloody hell he is supposed to say to Howard. Just then, the man in question walks into view and Vince hides behind the post, just peering round.

Howard has some dusty boxes in his arms and Vince recognises them as overstock of his trumpet socks. It looks like he’s setting up a new display over in what used to be piano corner before they palmed the old thing off on Fossil. Howard is pink of cheek and a little sweaty from the exertion, and his trousers have chalky handprints on them. But more importantly, he’s wearing a smile. A beautiful smile; content and unconcerned. He looks younger today than Vince remembers him looking for years, his brow smoothed and his shoulders, despite their burden, less hunched.

Is that because of Vince? Or is it just because Howard finally has a decent amount of space to peddle his jazzy wares in? In many ways, it’d be much easier if it was the latter, but Vince can’t help but hope otherwise. Sooner or later he’s going to have to stop staring, it’s getting creepy. If Howard turns round now, he’ll catch Vince in his sneakiness.

Unfortunately, Howard cranes his neck and smiles at Vince, making it clear he knew he was there all along.

Balls. Nothing to do but brazen it out.

****

As soon as he’d walked onto the shop floor, he’d felt Vince’s eyes on him. The fact that the neon strip-light was shining off the sequins on Vince’s top and sending little rainbows against the far wall had helped as well.

But Vince was hiding. Howard didn’t know why. Was he nervous? It struck him that perhaps he should be too. Certainly, if Vince feels the need to conceal himself, then shouldn’t Howard be flailing and legging it down the High Street?

But… he isn’t. He’d woken up to find every part of his body in contact with the smaller man and yet his first thought hadn’t been ‘don’t touch me’; it had been how very right and natural it felt. How well they fitted together. He realised that if he held his breath he could feel Vince’s chest jumping slightly against his, his heart beating a silent tattoo.

Howard is a complex man. Many layers Moon, they call him. Yes, coming face to face with modwolves or a green man-witch may lead him to beg for his life, but then that’s just sensible. This is different. There’s only one thing he seems at risk of losing here and frankly it’s about time.

He turns and smiles at Vince and the younger man steps out of the shadows.

“Alright Howard. Made you a tea.” Vince thrusts a mug at him.

Howard takes it. “Thank you, Vince,” he says.

“S’alright. Least I can do.”

Vince swaggers into the shop-proper and starts to examine Howard’s part-finished display. He selects a violent taupe knitted trumpet sock and examines it thoroughly. “I thought me an’ Leroy put a stop to these?” he asks.

“I had a few crates made as prototypes before they started the main run. They’ve been hanging about for ages. Decided I’d try and shift them on.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try, I guess,” Vince replies, sounding unconvinced.

“If you never try, you’ll never know,” Howard agrees.

Vince lowers his eyes and scuffs his shoes on the dusty floor. He’s quiet for a moment and Howard takes and sip of his cooling tea.

“About that…” Vince begins quietly.

“About what?” Howard asks. Yes, he’s still calm about what happened but he’s starting to grow apprehensive at Vince’s behaviour.

“Well, you know. ‘Bout what happened last night. Between us.” Vince looks up and Howard definitely starts to feel a twisting in his gut. “You know it meant something to me, yeah?”

Howard swallows. “But.” He prompts.

“What?” Vince asks.

“You were about to say ‘but’. I was just saving you the trouble.”

“Ah. But…” Vince continues and Howard feels his heart sink to his boots, albeit with the wry knowledge that at least he was right about something. “Thing is, you deserve someone who can promise you everything. Someone who gets all your jazz shit,” he gestures to the woollen musical accoutrements. “Someone better than me,” he concludes.

“You’re probably right,” Howard admits. Vince snaps his face up and frowns. Howard presses on. “But I don’t want this mythical person. I want you.” He sees confusion pass into Vince’s face, then relief and then resolute stubbornness.

“But what if I see a sparkly person and chat them up? I’m like that, you know,” Vince asserts.

“Then I’ll put little bits of sticky tape on the tabs of all your Numan cassettes and record hot bebop over them.”

“Oo, vicious,” Vince assesses, sucking air through his teeth. His face softens a bit and he shuffles closer to Howard. “What about if I dump you? Let’s be honest, I’ve not got the greatest track record, have I? Most girls don’t even stay the night.”

“If you dump me, Leicester will have your balls,” Howard says simply.

Vince shrugs. “Fair enough.” He takes Howard by the hand. A little residual fluster passes through Howard at the unexpected contact. Vince turns his big blue peepers upwards and meets Howard’s gaze, holding his darting pupils. “Seriously though, we’d not be mates anymore if I screw this up. I don’t know if I want to risk losing you for it.”

“Is it something you plan on doing? Cheating on me or dumping me offhand?” Howard asks.

Vince’s face drains of what little colour it normally holds. “Of course not!” he cries.

“Then stop acting out. Honestly little man, it’s not like you to overthink things.”

“Well, it was just Naboo…”

“Ah, Naboo. I should have guessed he was behind this. He likes to think of himself as the all powerful, all knowing shaman. He had a chat with me too.”

“Really?” Vince asks thoughtfully, chewing on his lip. Howard, noticing how close their bodies have gravitated, seizes the opportunity while Vince is distracted to encircle his arms about Vince’s smaller frame. He tilts his head down to Vince’s face. Vince looks at him surprised, as if startled to find himself in Howard’s arms.

“Oh yes. Tried to give me the birds and bees talk. Or the glurgh and vr’phon talk as he called it.” Howard ducks his head further, into Vince’s ear. “And let me tell you,” he whispers, “they do things very differently on Xooberon.”

Against him, Vince giggles. Howard pulls back and places his hands at the slight dint of Vince’s waist. Vince reaches up and cradles Howard’s face, brushing soft waves of brown smoke out of his eyes.

“So no more of this deep and meaningful shit, Vince,” Howard requests. “That’s my script, OK? You’re the impulsive one who does what he wants with no regard for consequenc-erk!” He gets no further as Vince drags him into a messy kiss. His heart hammers in his chest, his brow perspires and if he wasn’t so rooted to the spot he’s pretty sure he’d be in Shoreditch by now.

Vince breaks the kiss.

“See?” Howard pants, “You grope me, I panic. That’s how it works, alright?”

Vince laughs. “Alright,” he agrees, “But talking about groping, what’re you doing tonight?”

**PART 6**

_Howard still sleeps with his back to the wall. But he has to, because Vince needs the space to spread across the bed. He tries to keep the duvet on Vince, but the smaller man insists on shrugging it off._

_It’s as the light peeps through the curtains that Vince’s sleeping figure, long and lean, will wriggle in to Howard and press tight against his body. Howard will weave their legs together and stroke Vince’s cold arms until the goose-bumps subside, the shivering stops and Howard can get up._

_And for now, warming Vince is all he wants to do._

_****_

_Vince doesn’t have as much room in his bed anymore. But that’s okay, because Howard likes being there. He tries to draw the larger man into the middle of the bed but Howard is a creature of habit._

_It’s as Vince start to drift under the cloak of darkness that Howard will mumble in his sleep; his body clenching and trembling. Vince will slide over to him, encircling Howard’s strong body with his arms and wrap a leg over his hips until the jerking stills and Vince can sleep._

_And for now, holding Howard is all he wants to do.  
_


End file.
